


The Men Who Loved Her

by misspensandscribbles



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Post-Series, Queen in the North, R plus L equals J
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-09-28 17:14:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10141055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misspensandscribbles/pseuds/misspensandscribbles
Summary: Because for a woman who is so easy to love, Sansa Stark has never, in her whole life, felt truly and completely loved by a man (both in the books and the series). I'm here to change that.A collection of shorts that are set during various parts of Sansa's life.





	1. The Squire

He starts off making his way out of the keep at a leisurely pace, relishing the early morning chill and tranquility as the sun begins its ascent. It's a sharp contrast to the building panic happening back inside that began when the Queen's handmaiden found her chamber empty just moments ago. He reckons kings and queens, especially the ones in the South, do not rise before the sun does. But Her Grace isn't like any of them. Her devotion to her people compels her to accomplish as much as she can from the moment she wakes to the moment she sleeps - from sending out letters to bannermen to painstakingly scrutinizing the accounts of Winterfell. Her love for her people and for the North is unmatched by any other.

As he walks down the steps to the yard, he can hear Jaime Lannister and Lady Brienne ordering all the guards and servants to check every room and corner of the whole of Winterfell. He ducks his head to hide the smirk on his lips even though no one is around to see it.

It's not like this is the first time it's happened. She's disappeared on them before - sometimes on the nameday of a long lost family member where she can be found in the crypts, standing or sleeping in front of their tombs. Other times she could be found conversing with the smallfolk in Wintertown or riding her mare in the Wolfswood. Many times Brienne and Jaime have asked, pleaded even, with the Queen to notify them of her spontaneous adventures, no doubt thinking themselves such pitiful sword guards to lose their lady on numerous occasions. The Queen, however, only inclined her head to the captains of her Queensguard, letting them know she heard them, and said in a tone that did not open any way for disagreement, "I appreciate the concern, but I assure you it is not needed." And that was that. The matter hasn't been brought up again since.

He feels though that they might bring it up once more because of today's circumstances. It is _her_ nameday after all. If anything were to happen to Her Grace on her namdeday of all days, he's sure that Brienne and Jaime would drop dead in an instant, not even giving the Northerners the chance to inflict their vengeance upon them for allowing harm to befall their Queen. Just last night, the grand hall was alive with servants bustling about, excitedly preparing for the great feast that is to be held later tonight in honor of the Queen in the North's twenty-second nameday. 

She's ruled the North for close to five years now. Her first three years were spent arduously rebuilding and repairing every nook and cranny of her home, aiming for nothing short than bringing glory and distinction back to the Starks' ancestral home. She labored tirelessly day and night to make sure their supplies were always sufficient, to appease every ally and house without compromising her virtue, and to lead her people with kindness and unyielding strength... and t do all this with a broken heart. He knows no other person, man or woman, who could accomplish such a feat with as much grace as she has.

He is disrupted from his thoughts when several guards rush from where he has just exited and begin to scatter all over the yard with some heading to Wintertown and others checking the towers. He feels more than he sees their anxiety and worry - they do not hasten because they've been ordered, nor it is out of duty. More than anything, they do so out of their love for her. The Queen has done well in gaining her men's unwavering loyalty and admiration.

When Daenerys Targaryen demanded that she rally her troops to the South to assist in her retaking the Iron Throne from Cersei Lannister, even going so far as to say that it had been her dragons that saved them from the Long Night, the Queen in the North did not so much as flinch when she told the Dragon Queen that she will not ask any Northman to ever step foot south of the Riverlands ever again unless he chooses to. She also pointed out that while her dragons brought fire, it was Jon Snow that secured the victory, killing the Night King with his own sword. 

Jon Snow, who sacrificed his life not for the Iron Throne. He reckons not even for the North.

_But for her._

He hears Brienne and Jaime bark at the stable boys to prepare their horses. They plan to search for the Queen in the Wolfswood. Their palpable apprehension causes them, Jaime in particular, to be harsher with their subordinates, and he can't help but be annoyed by it all. The Queen has never treated her people so crassly.

As much as he respects the Kingslayer and the Maid of Tarth, he cannot help but think them too blinded by their insatiable need to fulfill their vows, always obsessing over the Queen's every move as though she will inevitably walk off a cliff if she's unaccompanied by a guard or two, always protectively hanging over her shoulder more so than a maester would his pupil.

Quite honestly, he doesn't understand it nor does he go about his duty with the same fervor which, admittedly, makes him feel like the most incompetent and unqualified guard in all of Westeros. But he's reminded of why he acts the way he does whenever it is his turn to guard the Queen, and she lets him know how much she appreciates how he doesn't treat her like porcelain, like the helpless girl she keeps saying she was before.

"Thank you for not coddling me," she had told him once as they walked the halls of Winterfell. "Brienne and Jaime... they mean well, I know."

"They do, mi'lady," was all he had said, unsure of how he should respond.

"But gods do they make me feel like I'm a girl of ten and two again," she'd muttered. "They may very well be worse than my Septa."

He couldn't help the chuckle that spills forth from his lips, and he was grateful for it because she'd turned to him then with a smirk and said, "Don't tell them I said that."

Since then, their eyes would always find each other whenever Brienne or Jaime would fuss over her, her eyes shining with mischief and his gleaming with affection though he doubts she ever saw it that way. It is that image of her in his head that prompts him to walk faster, wishing to see his queen before the others find her. Because in his gut, he knows where she is, although he understands why no one has thought to look for her there - she has never visited the godswood since the moment she heard that Jon Snow would never return to her.

It's not because she has ceased believing in the gods; it is because she is furious at them for taking away the last person left to her, the one who had been both her family and her heart.

He breathes a sigh of relief as soon as he enters the clearing and sees her fiery red hair in the distance. She is standing before the heart tree, one hand splayed over its trunk while the other rests on her heart. He stills, contemplating whether or not he should approach. He knows how much the Queen values her moments of solitude, especially when she spends them like this. But he also knows that it will not please her to have her guards see her in such a state.

He tells himself that is what makes him take a hesitant step toward her and not his inability to stand idly by while the woman he has come to love more than life itself sheds her tears in loneliness, not when he has even the slightest chance of lessening her pain.

He is only a few steps away and still she does not notice his presence.Left with no other option, he prays that he is right in coming to her.

"Your Grace," he says as softly as he can.

She whips her head around to face him, her blue eyes wide, startled by his presence.

"Pod," she breathes. Hastily, she wipes her tear-stained cheeks, and he drops his gaze to the ground to give her what little privacy there is. She has never cried in front of anyone, not even when Samwell Tarly got to his knees in front of her and, in a choked voice, told her Jon had perished due to his injuries. But that didn't mean tears had never spilled from those sapphire eyes. Only her sworn guards and her handmaiden have had the occasion, sometimes he thinks it a misfortune, to hear her sobbing through the heavy wooden door of her chambers.

"Have they started looking through the pig feeds yet?" she says, trying to sound casual in an effort to lighten the mood, but her hands wringing together betray her.

He indulges her. He always does. "Not yet, Your Grace, although I wouldn't put it past them if they're doing it right now as we speak," he says with a smile.

"Bronn and Sandor?"

They were supposed to take the first shift today. No one had been more surprised than him when the Queen decided to pair the two together, having known the two men in King's Landing. She'd said they would complement each other - Bronn's humor would rub off on the Hound's humorless disposition and Sandor's steadfast discipline would lessen the sellsword's reckless attitude. They haven't murdered each other yet, so he feels that, as is the case with every other decision she's made, she was right.

"Wintertown," he answers.

She nods her head. And then after taking a nervous breath, she asks, "Brienne and Jaime?"

He smirks at that. "Wolfswood."

She shakes her head, the tips of her one hand rubbing her temple. "I better return then before they start interrogating the servants and the townsfolk," she says with a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. _Her smiles never reach her eyes anymore_ , he thinks. She moves to leave, hands lifting her skirts to keep them from being dirtied too much.

He doesn't know what makes him do it. Maybe it's because he knows it's his only chance to be alone with her. Maybe it's because he knows he will hate himself if he lets her continue keeping all this hurt and burden she carries to herself. Maybe it's because it's her nameday and gods does he want to be the one to make her happy. He doesn't have time to settle on which it is because suddenly he hears himself call to her in a voice that is both hurried and anxious.

"Wait."

She freezes, her eyes staring straight ahead. Unlike Jaime, Brienne, and even Bronn and The Hound, he has never dared ask her to do anything, always feeling like an interloper among them. He is, after all, of a lowly station when compared to the Kingslayer and the Maid of Tarth (although practically everyone in Winterfell knows Jaime has made her a maid no longer). And then, of course, there is the Queen herself.

He fully expects her to admonish him, to strip him of the cloak she has bestowed upon him and to order him to leave Winterfell for such a careless display. Yet she does none of that. Instead, she turns to him slowly and says, "Yes, Pod?"

His first impulse is to apologize for his blunder. It is only a beat later when he realizes that she isn’t the slightest bit angered by it. On the contrary, she looks at him with curious eyes and the softest gaze. And that spurs him on, giving him the boost of courage he so desperately needs, for he knows that while telling her to wait hasn’t upset her, what he’s about to say next most definitely will.

“He wouldn’t have wanted you to live this way… Your Grace,” he says shakily. He isn’t used to being so free with his words in her presence, especially when they are about her.

She stiffens though she hides it well. So well, in fact, that if he hasn’t been by her side since her escape from Ramsay Bolton, if he hasn’t taken it upon himself to learn everything he possibly can about her, if he hasn’t already realized just how deeply he’s fallen for her, he would’ve missed it.

“What do you mean?” she asks, trying but not really succeeding in steadying her trembling voice.

He takes a deep breath. “King Jon,” he answers. “Nothing was more important to him than your safety… your happiness.”

After what feels like an eternity of silence, she lets out a mirthless chuckle, triggering another onslaught of tears. She wipes them away again but in a calmer manner than before, not trying to hide them from him any longer. “He shouldn’t have died on me then. Though it is my fault as well, hoping as I did for his return. I should have known the gods would punish me for it,” she murmurs. Her shoulders sag a little bit, and she turns to the face carved onto the weirwood. “The least he could’ve done was take me with him.”

He knows such a thought has probably crossed her mind many times by now, but hearing such a devastating truth from her lips still feels like a knife in his gut. “Don’t say that, Your Grace. The North –“

Yes, I know, the North needs me.” She says it the way a tired mother speaks about her restless child because the North _is_ her child and she its mother. She says it without a hint of bitterness or resentment that would surely be present if someone else had spoken her words. Indeed, the Queen in the North is a Stark and a Tully through and through – family, duty and honor. Though strictly speaking, she does not have any family left except the North.

And her words ring true. The North does need her. Though the long winter has ended and spring has come once more, winter will still come again, and the North will need her to lead them through it because she is the only one who can. But while her statement rings true, it isn’t what he was going to say.

“More than that, Your Grace,” he says, taking one bold step forward. “The North loves you. Your people love you. I…” He stops himself just in time before he completely bares his soul to her. It will not do to tell her that for he knows it will be yet another weight on her already heavy-laden shoulders, and he would damn himself to the seven hells before he lets himself become a burden to her. “I am sure of it.”

She gives him a thoughtful look before turning away once more. “I have this fear, Pod,” she begins, wringing her hands together once more. “That my worth is slowly fading away, that the love my people have for me will eventually run out. My bannermen… I fear what will become of their loyalty to me when they realize, if they haven’t realized already, that I have no intention of marrying any of their sons, that I have no desire for another husband.”

“Your Grace –“

“And I fear I deserve it – the inevitable disappointment of my people,” she continues, not giving him a chance to stop her from going down this path of blasphemous thoughts. “I’m not Jon, you see. I am but a poor replacement for my husband, and in time, people will realize that. And I am selfish enough to do nothing about it because, gods, I am so tired of it all. I am... I am alone. And all I want is to be with Jon again, to be with my family again, even if it means I fail my people.”

At that, she turns to him, her sapphire eyes brimming with tears. “Do you hate me now, Pod?”

“Never. I could never hate you,” he answers immediately, not even waiting for her to finish. He doesn’t think twice anymore about closing the distance between them, walking to her slowly but purposefully until he stands in front of her. “It is true – you are not King Jon.”

He feels that his whole life has led him up to this point. Everything he has gone through, every battle he thought he wouldn’t survive but did, and every time he sheathes his sword and dons his armor have brought him to this moment. In the godswood. At dawn. With her. He musters up all the courage he reserves for battle to reach for her hand, preparing himself should she choose to snatch it away.

She doesn’t. It’s a jolt of lightning through his heart when his skin touches hers, and suddenly he feels as light as air. For someone who has gone through the hardest of times, her hand is soft and smooth, so delicate.

Her eyes betray just a hint of surprise when he holds her gloveless hand, now cold from the morning chill, and covers it with his other one. He can feel his heart beating out of his chest, and he won’t be surprised if she feels it too. He knows there will never come a time when he can be this free with her again. And so he chooses his next words like they will be his last.

“The townsfolk, the servants, your guards, your bannermen, your people… when we look at you, we don’t see King Jon’s widow. We don’t see someone in need of a cock in order to rule, nor do we see a woman in need of a husband.” He takes a deep breath, giving her a chance to tell him if he’s said more than he should because he feels like he has. But she doesn’t, so he pushes on. “When we look at you, we see the daughter of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, the Wardeness of the Vale, the Riverlands and the North, the Red Wolf,” he declares.

She doesn’t bother to wipe at her tears anymore. They fall as freely as his words just did. And he cannot help but think how breathtakingly and heartbreakingly beautiful his queen is. She has suffered and lost and survived more than anyone, but in spite of that – or perhaps because of that – she is very much the loveliest and most exquisite woman in all of Westeros. He would give anything and everything, his life included, to return to her the happiness that has always been so cruelly fleeting in her grasp.

“You are Sansa Stark, Queen in the North. And you have our heart, my Queen. Always. The way King Jon will forever have yours.”

He knows who he is. He’s aware of his inadequacies and flaws – the biggest one being he is not the kind of man Jon Snow was and he will never be. He will never have her heart.

He heaves a sigh that is heavy with sadness, not because of the knowledge that she will never love him, but because of the realization that she might never find love and happiness with another. “I know it is not enough, Your Grace. It will never be –“

A gentle squeeze of his hand cuts off whatever else he was going to say. His gaze drops to where they are connected, unsure if he had just imagined it or not. But then she tightens her grip again, and he looks up and sees blue eyes staring right into his. And while not quite a smile, the upward tug of her lips and the flickering light in her eyes is still the most gorgeous sight he has ever beheld.

“It is,” she whispers, her voice carrying the kind of tenderness that soothes the worries of the soul. “Thank you, Pod.”

Such simple words and yet their effect on him will stay with him all throughout his lifetime, he is sure. For all he knows, she might have only said them to stop him from saying anything else. But her eyes haven’t sparkled like that in a long time – he knows because he’s spent the past how many years staring at them, looking for the light that once shone when the gods haven’t yet taken away her husband. Seeing it now, all he can do is nod his head and pray that she forgives him for his lack of response.

Gingerly, she takes back her hand and lets it clasp her other one that is over settled over her abdomen. “How much longer, do you think, before they all go mad?” she asks lightly.

He beams at her. People in the south call her the Ice Queen. Daenerys Targaryen calls her something more deprecating. But the North knows their Queen, and oh how he absolutely revels in the knowledge that he now knows her in a way only he is privy to.

“I think they already have, Your Grace,” he answers with a grin.

She gives a soft laugh and reaches out her hand. Immediately, he obliges and holds out his arm for her to take. “We must return then,” she says, tucking her hand in his arm.

There is no urgency in their movements as he leads her away from the heart tree. Unlike when he first approached her, there is no heaviness clouding around her any longer. Her tears have dried up, and in their place is a steel determination and quiet strength that only she can wear with such beauty and elegance.

Before they can reach the end of the godswood, she turns to him unexpectedly. “And it is Sansa from now on, Pod. You’ve reminded me of who I am; it is only right that you address me as such.”

“But Your –“

Her quirked eyebrow both stuns and amuses him. So much so that he has no choice but to acquiesce to her demands. No matter that Jamie and Bronn will tease him for it mercilessly later on (for his feelings are known by all save the one he harbors them for) or that Brienne and the Hound will surely scowl at him for the impropriety of it.

“Sansa,” he says, testing the name on his tongue. He finds he quite like it, might even get used to it. “Happy nameday, Sansa.”


	2. The Viper

From a distance, he watches her take a stroll in the gardens, her handmaiden walking beside her. In the days following his arrival in King's Landing, he hadn't paid much attention to the Stark girl, now Lady Lannister, the Imp's wife. Based on what he'd initially seen of her, constantly denouncing her family as traitors and doing everything the lions bade her to do, he thought her weak and spineless - the very kind of woman he raised his own daughters  _not_ to be.

But he sees her now.

He observes as she leans forward, raising her hand to cradle one of the red roses and breathing in its scent. The way her fingers delicately cup the flower, taking great care not to crumple or break it, is a sharp contrast to the way she had gripped the knife at the banquet that was held a week ago.

King Joffrey had been boasting about the gruesome death of her brother and lady mother as though he were the one who orchestrated the whole thing. It was so absurd he had to keep himself from scoffing. The boy is cruel, yes, but far from cunning. He'd known in an instant that the Red Wedding was the plot of none other than the man who was also behind his own sister's death - Tywin Lannister. While all the guests had laughed at the expense of the dead Starks (though he did not fail to notice that the smiles plastered on the faces of the Tyrells were clearly forced), his eyes went to the Imp who had cast an apologetic glance at his wife. The young girl's face had been devoid of any emotion that one wouldn't think it was her family that was being ridiculed.

"A fitting death for traitors, my king," she'd said. Her emotionless response had clearly disappointed the boy for after throwing her a disgusted look, he'd gone on to brag about the Battle of Blackwater - another triumph that wasn't of his doing.

But while they all had turned their attention back, his eyes had remained on the girl, and he saw her hand grasped the knife and how her knuckles had turned white from the force of her grip. And all throughout, she'd worn the same expression she'd been wearing the whole night. Then, as if sensing that she was being watched, her eyes had suddenly lifted and met his, and immediately she'd let go of the knife and proceeded to drink from her cup. She never looked at him again.

It had dawned on him then that he might be wrong with his assumptions of her. And so since that night, he's been watching her and studying her in an effort to form a clearer picture of this Stark girl whom the Queen Regent has taken to calling little dove. But so far, to his frustration, his observations have only piqued his curiosity in the girl even more.

"You can leave me now, Shae," he hears her tell her handmaiden, her voice bringing him out of his thoughts. "I wish to pray first before my lord husband returns from the council."

As he watches her head to the godswood, he tells himself it is unwise to take such an interest in her. Ellaria had said as much to him the other night when she noticed how often he'd brought up the girl in their conversations.  _Don't give them any more reason to distrust you,_ she'd told him. Truthfully, he couldn't care less about how the Lannisters feel about him. They are responsible for the rape and murder of his sister and the death of her children. All he wants now – and the only reason why he’d agreed to come to this wretched city in the first place – is for vengeance. But, as his paramour stated, it will be harder for him to achieve it if he brings unnecessary attention to himself.

Then again, Oberyn Martell has never been known to choose prudence over impulse. The fact that he’s lived this long in spite of all his reckless abandon only encourages him further.

 

* * *

 

 

“You’ve been following me, Prince Oberyn,” she says without preamble as she is kneeling down with her back turned to him.

That she knows he’s been watching her catches him off guard, but what surprises him more is the realization that she’s been expecting his arrival, maybe even planned it. He finds himself quite pleased with such a discovery. His thoughts drift to his first meeting with the girl when Tyrion Lannister introduced her to him. She had only curtsied then scurried off when Margaery Tyrell called for her.

“So she’s the Stark girl.” He turned to the Imp and casually remarked, “Fragile little thing, isn’t she?”

For the first time since Tyrion sought him out at the brother, he saw uninhibited irritation on the dwarf’s face. “She is a Lannister now, Prince Oberyn. I would appreciate it if you address her as such since we both know what tends to befall on those with the name Stark,” he said through gritted teeth. He looked up at him then, his mismatched eyes full of judgment. “And I wouldn’t call her a fragile little thing either,” he said before walking away.

Now, as Oberyn looks at her fiery red hair cascading down her back, he thinks that the Imp might’ve been on to something after all.

“I have,” he admits nonchalantly. He walks closer until he stands a few feet in front of her and sees that her eyes are still closed. “You see, I like solving puzzles, and you, my lady, are the most interesting one in this miserable place.”

“You think me too highly, my lord,” she says, eyes finally meeting his as she stands. She’s only a few inches shorter than him. “I am only a traitor’s daughter, a stupid girl.”

“On the contrary, Lady Sansa, I believe you are neither a stupid girl nor the daughter of a traitor.” It’s true. Though he was never particularly fond of Ned Stark, he’d known the man to be honorable and as such undeserving of his fate.

Her eyes widen just a fraction as his words sink in, but she schools it back to the same blank expression seconds after, any trace of her surprise gone. “You would do well to choose your words carefully, my lord. His Grace doesn’t take too kindly to people who tell lies,” she says evenly.

“Which is precisely why I speak them to you, my lady,” he replies without missing a beat.

She purses her lips, and it is obvious to him that she is trying to decide whether or not he is setting a trap for her. “I am a loyal servant to King Joffrey,” she announces, eyes cold and voice steady.

He is impressed by how convincing she sounds. If he hadn’t seen the way she gripped that knife days ago, he would’ve believed her. But he knows better now, and so he tries to goad her into giving some sort of reaction to prove it.

“Ah yes, forgive me. I have forgotten that you are now a Lannister,” he says with a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. “The good aunt of His Grace.”

Her whole demeanor hardens instantly. He would’ve laughed if it weren’t for the icy glare she shoots him. _Yes,_ he thinks, _she is definitely of the North._ “I am not a Lannister,” she says coolly, carelessly.

It almost disappoints him how quickly she gave in. He waits for her to become aware of her blunder. He expects her to panic, to give an excuse, to take back her words or maybe even to run away. But she does none of these. Instead, she straightens her back even more, tilts her chin just a little bit higher and says in an unwavering voice, “I am a Stark.”

For the second time, she surprises him, and he finds the idea of being at the receiving end of all these surprises of hers quite pleasing. At the very least, it’s a more enticing way to pass the time here in King’s Landing than exchanging false pleasantries with the Lannisters and the Tyrells. He gives her a lopsided grin as he takes a step closer to her.

“Now who needs to choose her words carefully?” he asks her in a low voice.

But her gaze is unrelenting, unmoving, when she tells him, “I _always_ choose my words carefully, Prince Oberyn.”

With that, she turns around and walks away from him, not once looking back. She doesn’t do it on purpose, he thinks, but she has just made herself even more intriguing in his eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

“Why do you like it here so much?” he asks as he approaches her in the godswood.

In the past five days since their first conversation, he’s been coming to her every day at the same hour, always at the same place. So far, if there is anyone who has noticed their daily pattern as he is certain there is, no one has questioned him about it. And it would not matter anyway for he couldn’t care less about whether anyone found his visits scandalous or not.

“It is so... quiet,” he adds when she doesn’t respond right away.

“Not when you are here,” she says in an exasperated tone, and he laughs heartily.

She continues to surprise him with her boldness. It’s a complete turnaround from how she is when she is anywhere else but in this secluded place that surely reminds her of her home. So far, he’s the only one who’s done all the talking, asking her questions that she mostly answers with practiced restraint and measured response. But every now and then, he finds just the right word to say, and he is rewarded with a glimpse of her fierceness. It is those moments that lure him back to this place day after day, tempting him with the possibility that one day he will be able to bring out more than snappy retorts from her.

“I apologize,” he says with not even the slightest bit of remorse in his voice. “My brother has always said my mouth tends to say more than it should.”

When he is near enough, he notices the red mark on her cheek. He does not need to ask where it came from because he knows. Just as much as he knows that he cannot do anything to prevent it, but it upsets him nonetheless.

She notices him staring at it because he has never been good with subtlety. “His Grace was displeased with the manner of my curtsy. It seems my Septa taught me poorly.”

The levity he felt just moments ago has now disappeared. In its place is the cold reminder that all this isn’t a game to her. Unlike him, she cannot simply walk away from this whenever she wants. This is her life – a hostage of the people who murdered her family.

“I’m sorry,” he says sincerely.

For a moment, she just stares at him with an unreadable expression. “I don’t need your pity,” she replies evenly.

He tilts his head to the side, awed by such a response. “What do you need then?”

She stays silent, but the way she bites her lower lip tells him there’s an answer to his question. The urge to draw it out of her is great. Still, he forces himself to ignore it, telling himself to trust in his assumptions of her character thus far, that she will tell him once he proves himself to be her ally.

 _Ally._ It’s the first time the word pops up in his head yet he decides then and there that it is the right one.

“I need to be alone,” she says eventually as she kneels in front of the heart tree.

He nods slowly even though she isn’t looking at him anymore. “As you wish, my lady. If you need anything else, please do not hesitate to ask,” he says. And before he can leave her completely, he says over his shoulder, “I might be more willing to help than you think.”

 

* * *

 

 

“What do you pray for?”

He leans against one of the few trees, a half-eaten pear in his hand, as he watches her. He’s been doing this every day for almost two weeks now. He is certain that there are eyes watching and ears straining to hear their words. Thankfully, the sparseness of trees, shrubs and bushes in the godswood, as well as the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks, prohibit even the stealthiest of spies from coming close enough to hear without giving themselves away.

But then of course there are also people who, instead of resorting to spying, have chosen a more direct approach. It was only days ago when Tyrion approached him, albeit cautiously, and mentioned how glad he is that his lady wife has found a friend in him to which he only responded with a smirk. Ellaria, on the other hand, had been much more blunt. _And physical,_ he thinks as he rubs the scratch on his cheek.

“Do you want to sleep with her?” she’d yelled. It was phrased as a question but he knew perfectly well that it was an accusation.

“She’s a _girl_ ,” he’d hissed.

“Exactly! I will not be replaced by some girl, especially not one as weak and pathetic as her,” she had bit back, eyes lit with fury he’s never seen before.

It’s the absurdity of it all that had him unable to stop the chuckle that escaped his lips. They’ve both had countless others – men and women alike – in their bed and yet she’s chosen to be upset about Sansa Stark, a girl younger than his youngest daughter. “You are overreacting, my love,” he’d said, walking toward her to place a kiss on the top of her head. “And Sansa is not weak or pathetic.”

His paramour had huffed in response before walking toward the bed. She was almost there when he said, “And how could I even set you aside? You are not my wife.”

He’d meant it as a jape, a stupid one he could admit but a jape nonetheless. Ellaria, though, had been livid at his comment which led to the scratch on his cheek and him sleeping on the divan the rest of the night.

His hand rubs at the mark his lover left on his check and then travels around to his neck that is still sore as he waits for Sansa’s response.

She doesn’t answer him right away. She continues with her prayers and only opens her eyes to look at him once she is finished.

“What do you think I pray for?”

“Your family?” he asks without thinking. As soon as he says it, he curses himself for his thoughtlessness.

Her eyes grow infinitely tired at that, and it pains him to think of someone as young as her already so weary and defeated.

“My family is dead – my father, killed for a crime he did not commit; my mother and brother, betrayed by their bannermen; my younger brothers, burned alive by a man who was raised alongside us,” she says, she says, her voice wavering only slightly. “My sister is lost. I don’t even know if she still lives. And my half-brother... Jon’s taken the Black. I am no longer his family, and he is lucky for it.”

Her answer touches a part of him that makes him think of his sister. She is alone in this lion’s den much like Elia was when the dragons had ruled this place. And the idea of the girl before him meeting the same fate as his sister makes his gut clench.

“An escape then?” he leans over to whisper it in her ear.

A humorless laugh escapes her. “And where shall I go? To Winterfell where the traitors of my family now rule? To the Riverlands where my mother and brother were murdered?” She stands up ever so gingerly then, her hands smoothing out her skirts. “I would rather stay here, my lord, where I can serve His Grace the King for as long as he lives.”

There is something about her last words that give him pause. It’s not the way she said it for her voice did not give anything away, but he knows her well enough now to look past the obvious. It’s her choice of words that catches his attention. It is as though she knows how long he will live, as though she knows she will live longer than the boy.

Suddenly, he wants to grab her by the shoulders, his insides burning with a combination of excitement and trepidation. _Tell me!_ He wants to say, but he already knows she will not. Not yet.

“A wise choice, my lady,” he tells her instead. Impulsively, he caresses her cheek with the back of his hand. He does so gently in his effort to soothe yet another bruise on her face. It seems he is not the only one to receive a slap last night. She may be a Lannister in name now, but that does nothing to protect her from the King’s bouts of cruelty.

Surprising him yet again, she lets his hand linger longer than propriety dictates as she steadily holds his gaze. But when she tries to take a step back, she falters, wincing as her arms instinctively reach out to take hold of something. He immediately grabs both her arms to stead her, but the cry of pain she releases makes him pull back just as swiftly. He looks on helplessly as she staggers back and then bends forward as she leans her hip against the stone barrier, one hand coming up to the place where he gripped her. His eyes widen when the sleeve of her gown drops down to her elbow and reveals her forearm that is covered with black and blue bruises.

Everything else is a blur. All he sees are the marks that are visible to him and all he can think about are the marks that are hidden beneath her dress. He’d heard of how Joffrey had her stripped and beaten by his guards before his arrival to the capital, but that was moons ago. He thought that it had come to an end when she wed the Imp. And while he’d seen red marks on her cheek before when the boy would throw a tantrum, he’d known very well that sort of thing is common – utterly disgusting, but common in this filthy place.

But this... that she is _still_ being treated like a plaything, a ragdoll to be struck and thrashed about whenever it suits the Kings fancy makes him see red. It makes him see images of his sister being beaten and raped by the Mad King.

It is with that thought in his mind that he clenches his fists together and, through gritted teeth, asks her, “Does your husband simply look on as they beat you or does he turn a blind eye? Mayhaps he uses his height as an excuse to pretend he doesn’t see.”

She shakes her head. “Lord Tyrion is... he is kind, but even he can’t stop His Grace from carrying out his justice,” she murmurs.

He scoffs at that. “Justice? You are the wife of a Lannister. You are not the King’s to torment.”

“I am a prisoner! I am _anyone’s_ to torment,” she hisses back.

It’s the first time she shows uninhibited emotion. Her anger is not fanatical like the Baratheon boy’s or passionate like his. Hers is more quiet but just as deadly. He decides to give her a peek into his own thoughts, something for her to mull over when they leave this place and return to their respective stations.

He closes the distance between them and says in a low voice, “Lady Sansa, I too wish to serve the beloved king until the end of his days.”

They stare at each other, the silence carrying an overwhelming amount of possibilities. Maybe he’s deluding himself into thinking he sees a sparkle of hope in her eyes because it’s gone in an instant.

“I must head back to the keep,” she finally says.

He offers her his arm, intending to escort her back. It is something he’s never done before, but it is something he will insist on doing now, the marks on her arm and her cry of pain still fresh on his mind. He prepares himself for her rejection, maybe even her anger at proposing something that would undoubtedly raise red flags.

When, after a moment’s hesitation, she accepts his offer and tucks her hand in his arm, it is complete relief that he feels. Slowly, keeping mindful of her injuries, he leads her out of their meeting place.

He almost stops in his tracks when he feels her softly squeeze his arm as they near the entrance leading to the gardens where they know plenty of ears listen. He looks first at her hand on his arm and then at her eyes.

“You once told me of your willingness to help,” she says low enough that only he can hear.

He lays a hand over hers and squeezes it gently in return. “Yes, my lady. Always.”

She releases a breath he hadn’t known she’d been holding before giving him a smile that, though small, is the sincerest one he’s ever seen of her. “I’m glad,” is all she says.

He doesn’t say it out loud, but he is glad too. She is different when it is just the both of them. There is no trace of the girl she is when she’s at court. _She is no little dove,_ he thinks to himself. _She is a wolf, and she is about to pounce._ And he finds himself desperately wanting to be there beside her when she does.

 

* * *

 

 

“Teach me,” she tells him three days later, her sapphire eyes staring at him determinedly.

He almost gives in to the urge to lift his hand to her face and stroke her split lip. Unlike her previous injuries, he had witnessed how she got this one.

In a rare moment of unawareness, she didn’t hear Joffrey call her name, momentarily lost in the recesses of her mind. He saw the boy turn to the side and signal something to Meryn Trant. When the man smirked, he knew with sickening realization what his orders were. The pathetic excuse of a knight strode forward and, without warning, smacked her across the face with the back of his mailed hand, causing her to fall sideways. Before he could voice out his protest, Ellaria gripped his arm and hissed at him to keep his mouth shut.

It had been one of the very few moments in his life when he felt ashamed of himself.

“Teach you what?” he asks, although he already has his suspicions which she soon confirms.

She shrugs her shoulders. “The reason why they call you the Red Viper,” she answers.

He wants to ask her why she wants to learn his craft and who she plans to use it on. But there is no point. He knows the answers regardless of whether she decides to be truthful with him or not. He also knows that helping her in this will be the most reckless and dangerous thing he’s ever done. He will be putting not only himself but all of Dorne at risk of receiving the wrath of the lions should he be found out. He thinks of his brother, of Ellaria, of his daughters, he thinks of his home and his people who have been nothing but loyal to his house.

And then he thinks of Elia.

“Very well,” he finally says.

 

* * *

 

 

Unlike their previous meetings in the godswood, the past four days have been spent with them sitting side by side, looking out onto the water and exchanging whispers that have been drowned out by the sound of the waves.

Today, their lesson finally reached its conclusion when he secretly placed a vial of yellow-colored liquid in her hand when he kissed it in greeting. Her response had only been a meek smile and nod, exactly the same gesture she’s been doing since they started meeting.

“What do you plan to do after you’ve... used what you’ve learned?” he asks her now, breaking the silence.

She turns to look out to the horizon. The sun has already begun its descent, casting a golden hue over her face. And in spite of the grimness of the situation, he takes a moment to appreciate the beauty that is before him.

“After I...” she pauses. “After _it_ , I have no more reason to stay here.”

He takes a step closer. He knows an honest answer from her is highly unlikely, especially on matters that are as crucial and life-threatening as this, yet he finds himself fraught with the desire to know all he can about her before it is too late. “And where shall you go?”

When his eyes meet hers, there is uncertainty there. He knows she’s contemplating if she can share her plans with him. That she trusts him enough to ask for help in committing treason but not enough to tell him what she intends to do after wounds him more than he cares to admit. _I’ve given you no reason to doubt me,_ he almost tells her. But his gaze falls on her swollen lip once more, and he holds his tongue. A battered wolf trusts no one but itself.

Before he can reassure her that she need not answer, she suddenly says in a low voice, “Wherever the mockingbird takes me.”

Dread washes over him when he hears this, and he doesn’t bother keeping his displeasure from showing on his face. Petyr Baelish is quite possibly the most dubious and untrustworthy man in the whole of Westeros. The idea of Sansa Stark being in the care of that man makes his skin crawl.

“The mockingbird cannot be trusted,” he insists in a clipped voice.

“Which is why I don’t trust him,” she says immediately. “I trust the mockingbird as much as I trust in the Queen Regent’s mercy. But trust does not have anything to do with this. I just need him to take me away from here.”

“Dorne is beautiful this time of year,” he hears himself saying.

Her sharp intake of breath pulls his eyes to hers. She doesn’t even bother masking her emotions. Her face is unabashedly surprised, doe-eyed and lips slightly parted in a silent oh. Part of him thinks that maybe he should say something more, but a bigger part of him wants to simply keep looking at her, to etch her face in his memory. Because no matter what happens from this point on, he knows he will never forget Sansa Stark. Because now that he’s seen unrestrained emotion on her face, he realizes just how strikingly beautiful she really is. And lonely. So heartbreakingly lonely.

And then he finds himself really wishing she would return with him to his home where she would be well and truly free, away from her tormentors and away from the source of her nightmares, where she could laugh and smile and scowl and yell without any fear of receiving a split lip or a bruised cheek for it. He yearns for nothing more than for her to be emancipated from her chains and roam as freely and as untamed as the sigil of her house.

“Do I remind you of your sister, Prince Oberyn?”

It stuns him, her question. She has never asked him anything so delicate before. Their conversations have always been about her and other trivial matters, never about him and certainly never about Elia. That she even knows of his sister’s fate has never crossed his mind no matter how many times he’s thought of Elia in her presence.

Her voice pulls him out of his thoughts when she speaks again. “It is only...” she hesitates, biting her lower lip. She takes a deep breath, for courage perhaps, then continues. “It is the only reason I can think of that would warrant your... attentions toward me.”

Still, he is at a loss for words. It is true that she reminds him of Elia, and that was probably the reason why he first sought her out in the first place aside from his curiosity. But his sister has never been the main reason why he leaves his chamber everyday to seek Sansa Stark out. None has been more surprised than him with the fact that he happens to enjoy her company and that there is something irrevocably admirable about her. That she still finds it in herself to rise every morning only to be ridiculed and abused by the very people who killed the people she loves astounds him. That she chooses to wake instead of throwing herself off the nearest tower like Ashara Dayne stirs a sense of protectiveness in him. It dawns on him, at this very moment, just how much he has come to respect and admire this red wolf.

“Yes, you remind me of my dear Elia, but not in the way you might think,” he begins. He takes one step forward, close enough that she can clearly see the truth in his words, but not too close that would incite the prying eyes around them. “I see in you what I have always hoped my sister would have – a chance to fight back.”

She looks away, out into the open sea. “You wish to avenge her, my lord,” she says. It isn’t a question but a statement. But he still answers her anyway.

“Yes, I want vengeance.”

She nods her head, understanding, then she turns to meet his gaze and gives him a look that seems to say she knows something he doesn’t. “Then I believe it will be awhile before you can return to Dorne. And by then, I will already be far away from here.”

He furrows his brow. “What do you mean?”

“When all is said and done, my lord husband will surely be arrested and found guilty no matter that he is innocent. Cersei’s hatred of him will trigger it; my disappearance will guarantee it,” she says softly and slowly as if testing the words on her lips. Instinctively, he knows that this is the first time she is saying these things out loud, but not the first time she’s thought of them. “And if he is the kind of person I think he is, Tyrion will demand a trial by combat.”

It takes a while for him to fully comprehend the meaning behind her words, but when he does, he cannot suppress the scoff that escapes his throat. “And what makes you think that I am willing to be a Lannister’s champion?” he asks, failing to keep the venom from his voice.

She bites her lower lip, a telltale sign of her nervousness and no doubt a result of him raising his voice. But before he can even consider apologizing, she steels herself together. “I have no doubt that Cersei will choose The Mountain as her champion,” she says carefully. “You can finally avenge your sister.”

As she continues to look into his eyes, it is almost as if a fog lifts from his vision and it is clear to him now just how much she has changed since their first meeting. Or perhaps it is not that she’s changed, he thinks, but that she’s finally showing him who she really is. Behind the innocence in her sapphire blue eyes is a mere shadow, a silhouette of infinite knowledge clouded in secrecy. All of a sudden, he knows with the strongest conviction that she has learned to play in the game of lies and deceit that the lions are so fond of playing, and that she can easily outwit and outplay them all.

He’d come to King’s Landing for one purpose and one purpose only, and that is to seek retribution for the murder of his sister and her children. The girl standing before him now began as nothing more than an itch of curiosity, a means of distraction from all the politics and boredom of court.

But somewhere along the way, she’d begun to mean more to him than he could ever possibly fathom. And now he finds himself wanting to protect her as much as he’s been determined all his life to take revenge for the death of his sister. But before it even occurs to him that he must choose between the two, she chooses for him.

“You must avenge her.”

 “I will ask you one last time, are you certain this is what you wish to do?” he asks. Part of him is immensely proud that she’s chosen this for herself. But another part wants nothing more than to shelter her from this dreadful act that will no doubt etch itself onto her soul. “You can still change your mind. There is no shame in that.”

Instead of answering his question, she bows her head and says instead, “Thank you, Prince Oberyn, for your kindness.”

He can see her eyes glistening with unshed tears, and it is only then that occurs to him that this is it. This is her goodbye.

“I do not know if we shall see each other again,” she adds, her voice is soft and there is a faraway look in her eyes as though she can already glimpse her future. And then, completely catching him by surprise and practically taking his breath away, she takes hold of his hand and stares into his eyes. “But I will never forget what you’ve done for me.”

Before he can form a response in his head, she squeezes his hand and then abruptly lets go, taking a step back. It is clear that this signals the final end of this rendezvous of theirs. He still doesn’t know what to say, but when she turns around to leave, he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind.

“Sansa,” he utters. It is the first time he’s called her by name and fittingly so, he thinks, for he knows the chances of him doing so again is almost impossible.

She stops but doesn’t face him. And he decides it is a good thing. It is easier for him to formulate a coherent though without her eyes on him.

“Live,” he says, his voice wavering with emotion because, gods, it is all he wants for her – a life that is free, a life where she need not survive but simply live. “Whatever happens, you must live.”

Slowly, she faces him and there is no mistaking anymore the tears that fall down her cheeks. “So must you, my lord,” she whispers. “I couldn’t bear it if you achieve vengeance only to lose your life in doing so. I... There is already too much blood on my hands.”

He wants to protest, to say her hands are the cleanest ones in this place full of murders dressed as saints. And he also wants to ask why – why couldn’t she bare it if he loses his life? But before he can speak out about any of these, she turns from him once more and walks away.

It’s ironic, he muses. It was the first time she is unabashedly honest with him, and yet the last thing she tells him is a lie.

 

* * *

 

When the King begins to choke on his wine and everyone looks on, he fixes his eyes on the girl with auburn hair sitting completely still at the far end of the dais. She looks at her tormentor with wide and shocked eyes. If anyone were to see her, they’d think she is just as stunned as the rest of them with the unfolding events. But he knows better. It is not the terror of the King dying that distresses her. He knows that it is only just sinking in, the full extent of her decision to end his life.

 _This does not rob you of your goodness,_ he wills her to hear his thoughts though he knows it is useless.

As soon as Cersei starts screaming and the whole affair plunges into chaos, he sees a man suddenly appear beside her and grabs a hold of her arm. And then in the next second, she is staring directly at him, and it feels as though lightning has struck him and everything else falls away. In this moment, there is only her and him. In this moment, it feels as though she sees through the very depths of his soul, while he trudges desperately through the fog that hinders him from seeing into hers.

And then just when he can see the clearing up ahead, she allows the man to pull her away, further and further away from the people who made her suffer, further and further away from the man she killed. His eyes never leave her retreating form. Before they disappear into the crowd, Sansa Stark turns to look at him one final time. It is only for the briefest of moments before the man yanks her forward, but it is enough for them both to convey to the other what they wish to say.

 _Goodbye_.


End file.
